Poem: trestle

gin prickled pine
needled cold skin
drawn tight ‘round
ribby chests
vertebrae knotched
all the way down
fleshed out boys their
cast off clothes
on wrought rail
sun warmed wood
opens pores smells
of age old
train grease embers
cigarettes on the rocks
with the older boys
the boys who
can drive to trestles rebel
drown occasionally
to assure someone’s
watching
the water smells
of ore is
a thousand broken
Sunkist bottles
one and again one last breath
not looking down
not thinking
those boys who
have not kissed
have not lost
see no further than later tonight
fall like faux pearls
reappearing downriver
like white dying tapeworms